But they were only children; they did not really understand.

Passion was sweeping them off their feet, because a common danger had bound them irrevocably to one another.

The womanly instinct to save and to protect had given the young girl strength to bear a difficult part, and now she loved him for the dangers from which she had rescued him, and he loved her because she had risked her life for him.
The hours sped on; there was so much to say, so much that was exquisite to listen to.

The shades of evening were gathering fast; the room, with its pale-toned hangings and faded tapestries, was sinking into the arms of gloom.

Aunt Marie was no doubt too terrified to stir out of her kitchen; she did not bring the lamps, but the darkness suited Armand's mood, and Jeanne was glad that the gloaming effectually hid the perpetual blush in her cheeks.
In the evening air the dying flowers sent their heady fragrance around.
Armand was intoxicated with the perfume of violets that clung to Jeanne's fingers, with the touch of her satin gown that brushed his cheek, with the murmur of her voice that quivered through her tears.
No noise from the ugly outer world reached this secluded spot.